Spring is Coming, Eventually

I got my first seed catalog for Spring 2009 in the mail today. Which is hilarious, frankly. Somewhere out there, in a magical land with robins and daffodils and people wearing shorts in March, someone thinks it's almost time to plant things.

Up here? We won’t even see dirt until late April—maybe May if winter decides to throw a tantrum on the way out. Right now the garden is under three feet of snow, two layers of ice, and one slightly bitter sense of humor. I've got shovels older than some of these seed catalog models, and right now they’re buried in the shed under three broken rakes, a suspicious pile of twine, and what I think might be a hibernating raccoon with squatters’ rights.

To help you visualize where "up here" is, there’s a sign just 15 minutes north of me that proudly proclaims the 45th parallel. That’s right—smack dab halfway between the equator and the North Pole. I live in the “don’t even bother with a groundhog” zone. We just assume six more weeks of winter and keep feeding the wood stove like it's a bottomless pit.

So, while the seed companies try to tempt me with glossy pictures of tomatoes, zucchinis, and flowers that have never even heard of snow, I’ll be over here ice-chipping my barn door open and trying to remember what grass feels like.

Still, I’ll hang on to the catalog. Because one day—one day—the snow will melt, the mud will rise, and I’ll remember why I bother with this whole “growing food” thing in the first place.

Of course, if winter drags on much longer, the catalog may end up in the wood stove after all. It’s got nice, glossy pages—burns hot and fast. So I guess I’ll either dream of spring or stay warm. One or the other. Can't have it both ways in the north country.

How I Served a Turkey That Weighed More Than My Dog

A true tale of triumph, trauma, and temporary herniation.

So, there we were—Jim, me, and The Bird That Time Forgot. This wasn’t a turkey anymore. This was a monument. A protein-based landmark.

We’d already roasted the 20-pounder for Thanksgiving, and he was big enough to require a minor pulley system and a kitchen cleared of all breakables. But now it was time for the Christmas turkey. Time to face the beast. The 39-pounder.

Step one was figuring out how to defrost something that could double as a footstool. We put it in the fridge. It laughed at us. Three days later, it was still solid enough to stop a truck. I started to Google, “how to thaw a turkey without a blowtorch or divine intervention.”

Eventually, we just hauled it into the tub like we were giving Shamu a spa day. Five hours and fifteen gallons of water later, it was thawed—ish. Close enough. I wasn’t about to wait for spring.

Now for the oven.

After some deliberation and the threat of power tools, I realized that roasting this turkey whole was a dream best left to people with commercial kitchen-grade equipment or a live-in team of engineers. So, we spatchcocked it. (Yes, that’s a real word. No, I didn’t make it up—look it up. Yes, I laughed every time I said it.)

Jim got out the garden loppers—I wish I were kidding—and after a few heave-ho! moments that probably violated some sort of turkey Geneva Convention, we splayed it out flatter than a Sunday newspaper.

Roasting it still required rotating it halfway through with the teamwork and precision of a NASA launch. Basting involved a mop. And when it was done? Oh, baby. It was glorious. Golden. Juicy. Impossibly large. Like carving a mythical beast with a bad attitude.

We fed 14 people, sent leftovers home in gallon bags, and still had enough turkey left to start a soup kitchen. We had turkey sandwiches, turkey stew, turkey pot pie, turkey omelets, turkey quesadillas, turkey smoothies (okay, that one was an accident), and I still hear gobbling in my sleep.

So, the next time someone says, “Oh, a turkey that size must be such a blessing!” you can tell them this: Blessings don’t usually require power tools, back support belts, and a signed liability waiver.

Happy Holidays, friends. And remember—just because you can grow a turkey that big… doesn’t mean you should, unless you’re looking to combine dinner with a full-body workout and a minor existential crisis.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I've been a good mom all year. I've fed, cleaned and cuddled my children on demand, visited their doctor's office more than my doctor, sold sixty-two cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree on the school playground. I was hoping you could spread my list out over several Christmases, since I had to write this letter with my son's red crayon, on the back of a receipt in the laundry room between cycles, and who knows when I'll find anymore free time in the next 18 years.

Here are my Christmas wishes:

I'd like a pair of legs that don't ache (in any color, except purple, which I already have) and arms that don't hurt or flap in the breeze; but are strong enough to pull my screaming child out of the candy aisle in the grocery store. I'd also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy. If you're hauling big ticket items this year I'd like fingerprint resistant windows and a radio that only plays adult music; a television that doesn't broadcast any programs containing talking animals; and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.

On the practical side, I could use a talking doll that says, "Yes, Mommy" to boost my parental confidence, along with two kids who don't fight and three pairs of jeans that will zip all the way up without the use of power tools. I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting "Don't eat in the living room" and "Take your hands off your brother," because my voice seems to be just out of my children's hearing range and can only be heard by the dog.

If it's too late to find any of these products, I'd settle for enough time to brush my teeth and comb my hair in the same morning, or the luxury of eating food warmer than room temperature without it being served in a Styrofoam container.

If you don't mind, I could also use a few Christmas miracles to brighten the holiday season. Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a vegetable? It will clear my conscience immensely. It would be helpful if you could coerce my children to help around the house without demanding payment as if they were the bosses of an organized crime family.

Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is ringing and my son saw my feet under the laundry room door. I think he wants his crayon back. Have a safe trip and remember to leave your wet boots by the door and come in and dry off so you don't catch cold. Help yourself to cookies on the table but don't eat too many or leave crumbs on the carpet.

Yours Always, MOM

P.S. One more thing...you can cancel all my requests if you can keep my children young enough to believe in Santa for many years to come.

The Doghouse!

Found this on another blog I follow and it's just way too funny not to share. Make sure the man in your life sees this before he goes holiday shopping.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Twivg7GkYts

HOLY TURKEY BATMAN!

Back in the spring, I ordered a few turkeys from the feed store. You know, just your average holiday prep in April—because nothing says “long-term planning” like betting on birds you haven’t even seen yet. They didn’t arrive until the first week of June, and I was not pleased. I muttered something about poultry punctuality and fretted they’d still be the size of Cornish hens come Thanksgiving.

Well. Fast forward to August and I started giving them the side-eye every time I walked by the pen. By mid-October, it was less “holiday meal” and more “Jurassic Park reboot.” I swear one of them looked at me like he was planning to eat me.

My husband finally processed them last Saturday, and when we weighed the biggest one, I nearly had to sit down.

THIRTY-NINE POUNDS.

That’s not a turkey. That’s a Thanksgiving-themed linebacker with drumsticks the size of Louisville Sluggers. The others weighed in like runners-up in a strongman competition: 35, 26, and 20 pounds. We’re roasting the 20-pounder tomorrow because that’s the only one that doesn’t require a forklift access to the oven.

The rest are in the freezer. Well, technically on top of the freezer, because I’m still trying to make space inside the freezer. I may have to evict some venison and a few dozen mystery Tupperwares labeled “stew.”

But now I’m faced with a genuine Thanksgiving dilemma:
How do you wrangle a 39-pound turkey into a standard oven without voiding the warranty?

Do I butterfly it with a chainsaw? Strap it to a rotisserie spit and call NASA? I’ve seen smaller roast pigs served at luaus—and they didn’t even need basting every 30 minutes. I’m considering building a turkey sauna out of cinderblocks and duct tape just to fit it in.

Anyway—Happy Thanksgiving from our kitchen to yours. May your stuffing stay inside the bird, may your relatives behave, and may you never, ever, raise poultry large enough to qualify for its own zip code.

The Passing of Our Grandson

On November 11, 2008, our oldest grandson, Zach, passed away at just 16 years old. He had Cerebral Palsy. Of all the things we could say about him—and about the courage and faith of our son and daughter-in-law—her own words from her blog say it best:

“The wheelchair races have ceased at our home. Our oldest son has gone home to be with His Maker. Although we are sad and left to grieve, we recognize the blessing that he is no doubt happier to be released from a life of special needs, tubes, braces, his wheelchair, and the like. He has finished his race and gone on before us. He was one of those 'special' spirits who didn’t come to this Earth to learn, but to teach. Even though he never said a word, he taught by his example—his endurance, stamina, and the way he faced adversity. Many lessons were learned along the way because we were blessed to care for him: lessons of acceptance, gratitude, love, patience, strength, family, faith, and hope. We found that even though life can be hard at times, there is still plenty of Joy in the Journey, and nothing matters more than Faith, Family, and Love. He was truly loved by those who were blessed to know him, and he could laugh with the best of them. His laughter and smiles will be dearly missed. We are better people because he shared our lives. Thank you for the lessons learned—farewell for now. God be with you till we meet again, little buddy.”

Goodbye for now, Zach. We miss you every day and look forward to the time when we’ll be together again.

With all our love,
Grandma Sandy and Grandpa Jim

New Lamb

We had ourselves a little Veteran’s Day surprise this year. Well... maybe not a complete surprise. More like a “Yep, saw that coming” kind of surprise.

Back in mid-June, Bruce—the ram—decided to go full Romeo and busted through a 4-foot livestock fence supported by metal posts. Not exactly a small feat, but then again, rams are nothing if not determined when romance is in the air.

Now, knowing Bruce as we do, we figured he wasn’t launching an escape mission just for the joy of it. Rams aren’t wanderers; they’re opportunists. And sure enough, the next morning we found him being... let’s say... very attentive to Sweetpea, a lovely, dark gray Columbia/Rambouillet cross who clearly caught his eye—and possibly his nose—from across the field.

Bruce was promptly returned to his own pasture, and we reinforced the fence with electric wire on his side to curb any future Casanova stunts. And for a while, all was calm. But as many a parent of a teenager can tell you: it only takes one night of passion to create a long-term commitment.

Fast-forward five months, and just as we’re settling into November and the last of the leaves are dropping, bam—a new lamb arrives. In freezing temperatures, of course. Because no one ever delivers conveniently on a 60-degree afternoon with sunshine and iced herbal tea.

Cue the emergency setup. Out came the 250-watt heat lamp, casting its glowing red spotlight on our new little oops. And just like that, we were back to our favorite springtime sport—watching the electric meter spin like it’s training for the Olympics.

Sweetpea is doing fine, baby is adorable, and Bruce… well, he’s been strutting around like he’s responsible for the Second Coming of Sheepdom.

Moral of the story? Love breaks fences, timing is everything, and sheep don’t care what month it is as long as the mood is right.

WANT REAL CHANGE?

Well, the elections are over and America has spoken. But don't leave it there. Our elected officials need to continually hear from the American people so they can represent us in congress as well as from the office of the President. Check out www.americansolutions.com to see how you can be a voice for REAL change in America. Find out what you can do to help develop real, significant solutions to the most important issues facing our country.

A Dog Lover's Link

http://www.idodogtricks.com/index_flash.html

You have to try these interactive dog tricks. Very cute! Try typing fetch, sneeze, sit, stand, play dead, roll over, jump, wave, beg, high five, shake, down, sing, dance, fetch, kiss. If you discover any more commands that this little cutie will do let me know. Enjoy!

And So It Begins..... Again!

Well folks, it's that magical time of year when Old Man Winter shows up dressed as Frosty the Buzzkill. Right on cue, he’s thrown his annual Halloween snowstorm just to keep us humble. Because nothing says "festive fall fun" like shoveling your porch in a witch hat while trying not to slip on pumpkin guts.

Usually, these early flurries don’t stick around long. The sun will put in a few extra appearances, trying to convince us we’ve still got a bit of fall left. It’s a noble effort—futile, but noble. I like to think of it as Autumn’s version of, “Wait, I wasn’t done yet!” But even the maples are starting to look nervous.

Last year, though? Oh, we got played. Snow moved in mid-October like an unwanted houseguest and didn’t pack its bags until late May. That’s seven months of winter. Seven. That’s over half a year of the landscape looking like a powdered sugar doughnut. I started measuring time in shovelfuls and lost all feeling in my upper arms somewhere around March.

So now I’m side-eyeing this snowfall with deep mistrust. Is it a harmless little prank? Or the first icy warning shot of a winter that plans to overstay its welcome again? Up here in the north country, you don’t assume anything—you just mutter under your breath, check your firewood pile, and question all your life choices.

Either way, it's time to make the annual pilgrimage to get those snow tires put on. Preferably before every other procrastinator in town remembers at the same exact moment and the waiting list starts looking like the DMV line on a Monday morning. Waiting until the first real storm hits is a bold strategy, and by bold, I mean foolish bordering on tragic.

So here’s to hoping this snow is just a flurry with commitment issues. But just in case? Better dig out the snow shovels and the livestock water heaters, and start buttering up the plow guy. We might be in for another long one because Mother Nature certainly doesn’t care what the calendar says. If she wants Christmas in October and mud season in June, well, buckle up buttercup.

Sportsmen (and Sportswomen) for McCain/Palin

Dog Dance

Anyone who has ever has a special relationship with a special dog will appreciate the bond between these two. Warning: tearjerker! Get your tissues handy.

Hank Williams Jr. sings McCain-Palin Tradition

Playin' With the Big Dogs!

It never fails to make me smile—watching the dogs wrestle and tumble around like a pack of furry toddlers hopped up on sugar. There's something so pure and uncomplicated about the way they play. No agendas, no grudges, no need to keep score. Just tails wagging, paws flailing, and that unmistakable sparkle in their eyes that says, "This is the best moment of my life!"

What really gets me, though, is the way the big dogs handle their smaller playmates—especially Roxy. Now, Roxy may be small in stature, but she’s got the heart (and bark) of a lion. She dives into the fray like she’s got backup from an entire SWAT team. And the big dogs? They play right along, all gentle mouths and careful paws, even though one misplaced chomp could flatten her like a pancake.

These dogs know they’re strong. They know they could win. But they don’t need to. They let Roxy be the queen of the yard, the tiny terror of the tug toy, the undisputed featherweight champion of the tail-chase circuit. And they do it with nothing but good humor and wagging tails.

We humans could learn a thing or two from that. Not everything has to be a competition. Sometimes, it's okay to let someone else win, just because it brings them joy. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is take a break from the grind, roll around in the grass (figuratively, or literally—I’m not judging), and just enjoy the play.

Because if the big dogs can put their egos aside and romp around with a spunky little underdog like Roxy… well, maybe we can too.

Play nice, don’t crush the little guy, and remember—sometimes letting someone else win just means you’re secure enough to know you already run the yard.  

Before and After

This is the clearing project on the north side of the driveway. Since there’s now a permanent fence along the south side, we needed to clear back the brush and trees on the north side to have somewhere to pile the snow this winter. And let me tell you, after last winter's 12 feet of the white stuff (not all at once, thankfully—we’d still be digging), having a designated snow dump zone is critical.

I started by letting the goats in there for a few days. They’re excellent little underbrush eaters and make great "see-through" assistants. Once I could actually see the ground beneath the brambles, I brought in the chainsaw and chipper and went to work. Let’s just say the before-and-after photos are impressive.

Now all that’s left is to drag a few bigger logs to the landfill area, toss down some grass seed, and let nature (and the sheep) take over. By the end of next summer, you won’t even know it was a tangled mess of brush and tree limbs. The sheep will keep it trimmed like a well-maintained golf course—if golf courses were maintained by ruminants.

After all, that’s how this whole sheep/goat/pig/chicken/turkey operation got started in the first place: edible land management. (And yes, it’s exactly as glamorous as it sounds.)

Before:


After:

Crunch Time!

I haven’t had much time to post lately—because, well… it’s Crunch Time. With winter breathing down our necks like a relative who shows up early and stays too long, we’ve got a farm-sized to-do list that won’t quit. The clock is ticking, the leaves are falling, and it’s that golden window where the days are crisp, the sun is still warm on your back, and you feel just motivated enough to believe that yes, maybe we can get it all done before snow boots become a daily necessity.

Here’s a sample of what we’re staring down in the next few weeks:

• Finish the next 12'x36' section of the barn

• Split and stack six cords of firewood (and probably argue about the “right” way to stack it)

• Clear brush and trees on the left side of the driveway—because the right side is now fenced and, surprise, snow needs somewhere to go

• Clean the chimney and wood stove (the dirtiest clean job there is)

• Button up the house—weatherstripping windows, touching up paint, pretending we’re organized homeowners

• General clean-up and reorganizing of the farmyard chaos

And of course, let’s not forget the animals:

• Crutching the sheep (yes, that’s exactly what it sounds like—shaving the nether regions to avoid manure mats. Miss it one year and you’ll pay for it come shearing time.)

• Trim feet on all the sheep and goats

• Update all vaccinations

• Run electric hot wire along the top of winter pastures (because snow turns fences into launch pads)

• Send the remaining ducks to freezer camp

• Process the turkeys closer to Thanksgiving (they’ve had a good run... literally)

...and the list goes on. And on.

Hopefully, autumn takes its sweet time this year. Last fall, Old Man Winter barged in on October 19th and didn't pack his bags until the third week of May. That’s not a season, that’s a reign. We were caught scrambling then, and we learned the hard way—when it comes to winter prep, there’s no such thing as "too early."

But whether he shows up with a whisper or a wallop, the chores still need doing. It’s just so much nicer to tackle them now, while the sun warms your shoulders and the smell of leaves and earth still lingers in the air.

These are the days when it pays to throw a stew or soup in the crockpot first thing in the morning. Let it bubble away quietly while you haul wood, chase sheep, and curse at whatever tool you left at the other end of the property. And when the sun dips low and your body is ready to do the same, it’s pure comfort to walk inside and smell that rich, savory promise that dinner is just a ladle away.

Bless Mr. Crockpot. He never complains, never forgets, and always has your back at the end of a long, dirty, muscle-burning day. Here’s to sunny days, productive afternoons, and a hot meal waiting when the work boots come off.

An Iraq Veteran has a personal message for Barack Obama

If you agree with this video please e-mail it to all your friends. If you don't agree, just ignore it and I'll love you anyway. By the way, this video is NOT part of the McCain campaign - it was not paid for nor approved by him. It is just this person's (and my) opinion. God bless America!

Tough Love vs. Spanking - Good Argument

Dear Friends,

Most of the American population thinks it improper to spank children, so I have tried other methods to control my kids when they have one of those moments.

One that I found effective is for me to just take the child for a car ride and talk. Some say it's the vibration from the car, others say it's the time away from any distractions such as TV, Video Games, Computer, IPod, etc. Either way, my kids usually calm down and stop misbehaving after our car ride together. Eye to eye contact helps a lot too.

I've included a photo below of one of my sessions with my son, in case you would like to use the technique. This works with grandchildren, nieces, and nephews as well.

Sincerely,
Your Friend

Kids will be kids!

Yesterday my almost 16 yr. old grandson started out seeing how high he could pile whipped cream atop an oreo cookie.


Then he decided to plow his face into it to see if he could eat the cookie underneath.


Then came the experiment to see how much whipped cream he could pile on his face.


I guess when you're that age it doesn't take much to amuse you.

Development of the Turgoatkey

An Origin Story No One Asked For

So, this morning started like most mornings: hot chocolate in hand, animals where they belong, peace and tranquility... Ha! Just kidding. The goat was in the turkey pen again.

Yep. Our young Boer buck—who I now suspect might be part mountain goat, part parkour athlete, and possibly part raccoon—was inside the turkey tractor. Just standing there casually, like he belonged, looking smug, trying to blend in.

Now, before you call Animal Control or the Men in Black, let me explain.

We don’t entirely know how he got in there, but I’ve come to understand this little guy is a four-legged Houdini with horns and a food obsession. Then again, we didn’t know how he kept ending up in the doe pasture either—until one day, we caught him climbing the fence like a jailhouse escapee, wedging his head between the feeder crib and the fence post to gain leverage. He basically used physics and stubbornness to launch himself over. We added an electric fence. Problem solved. At least that one.

Fast forward to yesterday: I’m doing my headcount and—surprise! No goat in the buck pasture. I do a little searching and there he is, inside the turkey tractor.

Now, let me paint you a picture. The turkey tractor is an 8' x 12' pen with an A-frame tarp roof. It moves daily so the turkeys always have fresh ground to destroy with their unapologetic digestive systems. No cleaning—just drag the whole thing 12 feet and let the cycle of poop and pecking continue.

And somehow, this goat figured out how to breach Fort Turkey.

Obviously, he was after the grain. Because nothing motivates a goat like a snack that doesn’t belong to him.

Getting him out, however, was like extracting a cat from under a couch using salad tongs. The bottom sides of the pen are covered in chicken wire, the tarp is stapled on tighter than Aunt Marge’s wig in a windstorm, and the A-frame roof is made from floppy PVC pipe. It took two grown adults, several questionable decisions, and some mild cussing to hoist him over the wire and out a gap we made by peeling back the tarp like we were unwrapping a very confused birthday present.

Which brings me to my next brilliant idea:
The Turgoatkey.

Yes, you heard me. A new, genetically engineered species—half turkey, half goat, all attitude. A trailblazing, bipartisan barnyard diplomat who’s equally at home in the goat pen and the turkey tractor. Think of the collaboration! The synergy! The weird noises it would make!

I’m not saying it would revolutionize farming, but I am saying it might be the answer to problems we haven’t invented yet.

Now, I haven’t worked out the details like… say… how to create it… but I’ve got enthusiasm, a Sharpie, and a doodle of what it might look like. That’s basically science.

So if you'd like to be on the official waiting list to be notified when the first Turgoatkey hatches (or is born… or maybe just wanders in from another dimension), let me know. No promises, but you'll be the first to get a T-shirt.

In the meantime, keep your goats locked up and your turkeys supervised. Because once they start working together, we’re all in trouble.

Sheep Poop!

Now, I know what you're thinking—“Wow, what a glamorous life she must lead.” And you'd be absolutely right. Because what says glamour more than spending a breezy afternoon examining sheep poop like it’s fine wine?

Jim and I recently attended a FAMACHA workshop. For the uninitiated (i.e., anyone with a normal life), FAMACHA is a method used to determine internal parasite levels in sheep and goats—so you only deworm the animals that need it. That way, the worms don’t build up resistance and start demanding union wages and PTO. (If there is a parasite overload, the inner eyelids, which should be bright pink, will be pale pink to white, indicating anemia.)

It all started innocently enough. We sat through a slide presentation where someone, somewhere, decided a three-foot close-up of an sheep's inner eyelid was a good idea before lunch. Then it was time for hands-on practice. We filed outside to check actual sheep eyeballs, flipping lids like we were working at a fast-food joint for livestock: “Would you like anemia with that?”

After the eyelids came the poop. Glorious, glorious poop. Now, ideally, you’d just stand around, clipboard in hand, while your sheep politely deposits their samples in front of you like the cooperative little angels they are in the storybook version of farming. In reality, we spent an uncomfortable amount of time crouched behind woolly butts, waiting, praying, and occasionally fishing for it ourselves like gold mine prospectors.

Let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like elbowing your way into a sheep’s personal space while whispering, “Please poop. Please. Just. . . poop.” Honestly, the only thing missing was a candlelight dinner and a playlist of Barry White.

One gal in our group was the Beyoncé of sheep wrangling. She had this move—some kind of judo sheep snatch—that would’ve made a professional wrestler weep. She caught a sheep mid-sprint with the grace of a panther. Meanwhile, the rest of us were performing interpretive dance routines with halters and embarrassment.

Back at the barn, things really got weird. We measured the poop, mashed it into a scientific smoothie, strained it like fine soup stock, and slapped it on a microscope slide. I half expected Gordon Ramsay to walk in and scream, “It’s RAW!” Then we broke out calculators and math formulas that made me long for the simple days of long division and pencil sharpeners.

And let me tell you, the weather? Absolutely divine. Sunny, cool, a slight breeze—just a whisper of autumn in the air. Perfect poop-collecting weather. While the rest of the world was out hiking or sipping overpriced lattes on some lakeside dock, we were harvesting fecal samples and living our best life. That, my friends, is dedication—or insanity.

In fact, I think we’re onto something here. I see a whole new frontier opening up—competitive poop collection. Maybe even a league. I’m talking official jackets, theme music, commemorative mugs. We’ll call it Poop Gatherers of New England—PGNE. Jim says that acronym sounds like a gas company, so he’s pitching Poop Gatherers of America instead. PGA. Has a nice ring, right? Finally, a reason to watch golf.

So, if anyone needs me next weekend, I’ll be training. Sheep poop waits for no one.

Attack of the killer chicken!

One would think chickens are fairly innocuous creatures. Fluffy. Feathery. Slightly ridiculous.

Alas—not so. Not when you’ve got a bite mark on your hand that says otherwise. Yes, that is a chicken bite. And yes, I’m telling you this story even though it makes me feel a little ridiculous.

My chicken coop has a bit of fancy engineering to it (if I do say so myself). The nest boxes extend from the back wall of the barn, fitting snugly into a custom opening so I can collect eggs from the comfort of the barn. No more trudging through snow, mud, or wind that feels like it's trying to skin your eyebrows off. Just reach in, grab the egg, head to the house like the clever farm woman I am.

There's also a small door for slipping in food and water—just another stroke of genius. It’s efficient. It’s tidy. It’s... almost foolproof.

Now, about the bite.

The back of the nest boxes has a hinged door I can open to check for eggs, and it also blocks chickens from sneaking into the barn itself. Most mornings, if a hen’s roosting in the nest box, she’s facing away from me, head pointed toward the coop. That means I can just slide my hand under her fluffy backside, retrieve the egg, and no one’s the wiser.

But not this morning.

This morning, one of my darling feathered freeloaders was facing the other way. Which means when I opened the box, she was staring directly into my soul.

Now, did I stop and think about that? Did I pause for even a second to consider the risk of reaching under the business end of a broody hen? Of course not. I just reached in like it was any other day—straight for the egg that was clearly under her beak.

And that, dear reader, is where things took a turn. I’ll spare you the full play-by-play of the ensuing battle. Let’s just say I got the egg, she got my hand, and I walked away with a peck-shaped reminder that chickens may be small, but their tempers are not.

She sat there like a smug little velociraptor. I left with wounded pride, a dent in my dignity, and the distinct feeling that I’d just lost an argument with a creature whose brain is roughly the size of a lima bean. But hey, I won. Sort of. I got the egg, she got a chunk of my pride, and we’re both still giving each other the stink eye.

Moral of the story? When dealing with chickens, always approach from the back. Or better yet—bring snacks and negotiate.

"Goat Rock"

We recently welcomed a young full-blood Boer buck to the farm. His name? Cassonova—naturally. Because if there was ever a swaggering heartthrob of the goat world, it’s this guy. He’s already working the fence line like he’s posing for a dating profile: “Tall, muscular, enjoys long walks by the hay feeder and knocking things over for fun.”

We picked him up from a beautiful farm with one of the best natural playgrounds I’ve ever seen—what we now call Goat Rock. It's a big, sun-drenched rock ledge that looks like it was designed by a goat architect with a dramatic flair for sunbathing real estate. The rock continues off to the right, out of camera view, but trust me—it’s prime goat territory. Every bump, shelf, and crevice had a goat wedged into it like some sort of barnyard version of Tetris. Heads resting, legs dangling, eyelids drooping in pure sun-soaked bliss.

It honestly made me jealous. They were sprawled out like they were on a tropical vacation, without a single care in the world—no bills, no chores, no wondering where they left their reading glasses (just me?). Just them and the sun and the occasional headbutt to keep things lively.

I snapped a picture, but it doesn’t do it justice. There’s something about that kind of peaceful, communal loafing that makes you pause. Makes you wish you were a goat. Or at least had a big rock and the time to loaf on it.

So now Cassonova's here, already charming the ladies and surveying his new kingdom. I might not have a rock ledge, but I’ve got a warm patch of barn wall, and if you catch me leaning on it in the afternoon sun with my eyes half closed… just know I’m living my best goat life.

LETTER FROM A FARM KID

Dear Ma and Pa,

I am well. Hope you are.

Tell Brother Walt and Brother Elmer the Marine Corps beats working for old man Minch by a mile. Tell them to join up quick before all of the places are filled. I was restless at first because you get to stay in bed till nearly 6 AM but I am getting so I like to sleep late. Tell Walt and Elmer all you do before breakfast is smooth your cot, and shine some things. No hogs to slop, feed to pitch, mash to mix, wood to split, fire to lay. Practically nothing.

Men got to shave but it's not so bad, there's warm water. Breakfast is strong on trimmings like fruit juice, cereal, eggs, bacon, etc., but kind of weak on chops, potatoes, ham, steak, fried eggplant, pie and other regular food. But tell Walt and Elmer you can always sit by the city boys that live on coffee. Their food plus yours holds you till noon when you get fed again. It's no wonder these city boys can't walk much. We go on 'route marches,' which the platoon sergeant says are long walks to harden us. If he thinks so, it's not my place to tell him different. A 'route march' is about as far as to our mailbox at home. Then the city guys get sore feet and we all ride back in trucks. This will kill Walt and Elmer with laughing.

I keep getting medals for shooting. I don't know why. The bulls-eye is near as big as a chipmunk's head and don't move, and it ain't shooting back at you like the Higgett boys at home. All you got to do is lie there all comfortable like and hit it. You don't even load your own cartridges. They come in boxes.

Then we have what they call hand-to-hand combat training. You get to wrestle with them city boys. I have to be real careful though, they break real easy. It ain't like fighting with that ole bull at home. I'm about the best they got at this except for that Tug Jordan from over in Silver Lake. I only beat him once. He joined up the same time as me, but I'm only 5'6' and 130 pounds and he's 6'8' and near 300 pounds dry.

Be sure to tell Walt and Elmer to hurry and join before other fellers get onto this setup and come stampeding in.

Your loving daughter,
Carol

Rainbow Bridge

"What we call 'death' is the operation of life." --Brigham Young

I once heard a story told that in a beautiful blue lagoon on a clear day, a fine sailing ship spreads its brilliant white canvas in a fresh morning breeze and sails out to the open sea. We watch her glide away magnificently through the deep blue and gradually see her grow smaller and smaller as she nears the horizon. Finally, where the sea and sky meet, she slips silently from sight; and someone near me says, "There, she is gone!"

Gone where? Gone from sight - that is all. She is still as large in mast and hull and sail, still just as able to bear her load. And we can be sure that, just as we say, "There, she is gone!" on another shore someone says, "There, she comes!"

I believe that when we die we will be reunited with people we love on the other side. And I certainly hope that animals we love are also there waiting for us. Here's to all those wonderful pets that have brought us so much joy who have crossed over the Rainbow Bridge.

Isabelle

Farm life has a rhythm. Some days it’s a quickstep of chores snapping at your heels, with no time even to pause for lunch. Other days it’s a slow, steady heartbeat you can feel deep in your bones. Feed buckets clanging. Hoofbeats in the barn aisle. A rooster who thinks 4:37 AM is the perfect time to practice his solo.

It’s a never-ending list: animals to feed, fences to mend, family to care for. But underneath the bustle runs an older, quieter rhythm—one that’s been here since long before any of us. Life. Death. And everything in between.

I learned that rhythm young, on my Aunt May’s farm. Nobody needed to explain the birds and the bees—it was all there, right outside the back door. Birth, death, beginnings, and endings, all folded neatly into the seasons. It wasn’t frightening or tragic. It was simply life as it was meant to be.

We like to think of birth as a beginning and death as an ending, and we label one “good” and the other “bad.” But life on a farm teaches you pretty quickly they're both part of the same circle, chapters in the same book. Sometimes, though it hurts, death is a kindness—the gentle closing of a gate when the pasture becomes too steep. If you keep livestock, you will one day have deadstock. That’s just the truth of it.

This week, we said goodbye to Isabelle—one of our first ewes, and one of my dearest.

She was never the flashy sort. She didn’t leap fences or demand attention. She was quiet, but her presence filled a barn in the way sunlight fills a doorway. Isabelle had a way of looking at you—right in the eyes—as if she were reading your soul with her soft brown gaze. Not judging. Just seeing. All the way through.

Her last lamb, Lambchops, was born this past February. A bold little spitfire who keeps us laughing. So Isabelle’s story doesn’t truly end—it runs on in the woolly mischief-maker bouncing across the pasture, joy on four legs.

Still, the barn feels different now. The rhythm a shade slower.

We will miss her. We will remember her. And when the wind moves through the pasture grass, we’ll hear her footsteps in its whisper and know she's still here.

And Now, H-e-e-e-re's Roxie!

Roxie, our 3-month-old English Shepherd pup, had her vet appointment today. Everything went just fine, medically speaking. Emotionally? Socially? Politically? That office may never be the same.

We weren’t there for more than a few minutes before Roxie decided the entire waiting room was operating in absolute chaos and she, a puppy with no credentials whatsoever, needed to restore order immediately.

Now, this was your standard vet office scene—cats in crates, dogs on laps, a parrot in a carrier muttering what I think were obscenities, and a general air of nervous anticipation. Pretty normal. Until the mini fox terrier on her mom’s lap made a fatal error in judgment: she jumped to the floor.

Roxie, who had apparently appointed herself Director of Ground Traffic and Morality Enforcement, barked once. Just once. The fox terrier hit reverse so fast she might have dislocated time. Back up in mom’s lap like she’d been yanked by an invisible fishing line.

And that, dear reader, is when things escalated.

Suddenly Roxie was running a one-puppy security detail. If any dog dared so much as shift on their leash or wander more than three inches from their human, she lit them up with a sharp bark and a judgmental glare that said, “Don’t make me come over there.”

She wasn’t just herding animals, she was herding humans. At one point, a man slid his cat's carrier a little closer to the wall to make room for someone else. Roxie gave him the stink eye and let out a low grumble like she was channeling Clint Eastwood in a western. “That cage goes back where it came from, pilgrim.”

I finally cupped her fuzzy little muzzle and whispered, “Enough, Sergeant.” And like someone had hit the mute button, she stopped. Just like that.

She sat. She watched. She judged. Quietly. I have no doubt she was still mentally logging every violation of personal space, leash entanglement, and unauthorized sniff. But at least she let the rest of the appointment proceed without assigning anyone community service.

So yes, Roxie’s vet check went well. Her weight is good, her heart is healthy, and her sense of order is alarmingly strong. If she ever learns PowerPoint, I fully expect her to start holding performance reviews.

Roxie’s Rules for Proper Waiting Room Behavior

(As dictated by one very opinionated English Shepherd pup)

1. Stay in your assigned seat.
   If you started on a lap, stay on the lap. If you're on the floor, stay on the floor. Musical chairs is not a game we’re playing here.

2. Thou shalt not wander.
   If you leave your human's side, I will bark you back like a fuzzy TSA agent with boundary issues.

3. No unsanctioned sniffing.
   This is a place of medicine and dignity, not speed dating for dogs.

4. No crate shuffling.
   That cat carrier is in exactly the right spot. I don’t care if the sun is hitting it weird or you want more leg room. Put. It. Back.

5. Silence is golden.
   Excessive whining, yapping, or interpretive howling will be met with judgmental side-eye and a formal warning bark.

6. All treats must be declared.
   If you brought snacks, they are now community snacks. Don’t make it weird.

7. Humans, get it together.
   Keep your leashes untangled, your emotional support coffee contained, and your phone out of my face. I’m working here.

8. Obey the Alpha (me).
   I am compact, confident, and made entirely of justice, opinions, and the unshakable belief that I run this place. This is my waiting room now.

The White Ghost

This past weekend, my youngest daughter brought her fiancé, Marc, up to the farm. Now Marc is a big guy—college football star big. The kind of man who makes door frames feel inadequate and folding chairs sweat nervously.

Levite, our Great Pyrenees guardian, did not appreciate Marc’s linebacker energy one bit. I’m not sure Levite had ever seen a human that size before, and as far as he was concerned, that was a clear and present danger.

When Marc walked up to the fence, Levite launched into full protective mode—fur standing up like he stuck his paw in a light socket, barking like the wrath of God in fur. And he wasn’t just bluffing. He was making it crystal clear that this fence is the line, buddy, and you shall not pass.

Once he was convinced that Marc wasn’t going to breach the perimeter, Levite did a full barnyard patrol. He checked every sheep, every chicken, every corner of the yard—like he was taking attendance. One, two, three…yes, even the ridiculous-looking silkie with the bad haircut. All accounted for. Then he parked himself right between the animals and Marc and stayed there, quiet but watchful, until Marc had moved on.

At one point, one of the sheep started wandering up to the fence, probably out of nosy curiosity, and Levite gave her a sharp correction like, “No ma’am, back with the herd. Stranger danger.”

Later, when my daughter and Marc came inside the pasture with me to see the new fencing setup, Levite allowed it—grudgingly. He even let Marc pet him a few times, like he was willing to give him partial probation as long as I was present to supervise. But he never let his guard down. The whole time we were in there, Levite stayed about 15-20 feet away, drifting from bush to tree to tall grass, like some kind of white ghost haunting the fenceline. Watching. Waiting. Protecting.

I don’t even want to imagine what he would’ve done if Marc had raised his voice or made a sudden move. And I almost feel bad for the coyote that ever thinks this farm is a buffet.

Levite isn’t just a dog. He’s a sentinel. A spectral, silent guardian. And when he’s on duty—which is always—you can bet your boots that nothing bigger than a grasshopper crosses that field without being seen.

He may be fluffy, but he's nobody’s fool.

Let the Experts Run the Farm

OK, I'll admit it. The barking of a Great Pyrenees is nothing to be trifled with - or to sleep through. Add 2 more to the chorus and the 3 of them can wake the dead!

Usually they'll bark only for 15 minutes or so and give up. This morning about 4 a.m. they all went spastic and kept it up for way longer that the usual. The neighbors have quite a few apple trees and when the apples begin to ripen, which is about now, the deer come in to dine. Since I didn't hear anything else about I figured that's what was upsetting them. So.... I got up, hastily got dressed, put on my muck boots, and wearily traipsed out to bring everyone into the barnyard and close the paddock gate so they couldn't get out far enough into the pasture to be disturbed. Of course I was muttering the whole time about stupid dogs that couldn't tell the difference between a predator and a vegetarian deer.

As I was taking off my boots and entering the house I heard the distinct chorus of coyotes in the field down the road. Boy, did I feel stupid! Had to go back to the barn and apologize to the dogs.

This morning when I opened the gate to the pasture, Levite, our dominant male, led the procession out as is his usual way of making sure everyone is safe. He has everyone wait at the gate, goes out just far enough to make sure everything is safe, then turns back to his flock and using some secret code that only the sheep understand, tells them to follow keeping a distance of about 15 feet behind. They all orderly file out to begin their day's activities. I did notice that when Levite marked his territory and did his usual scratching of the dirt, he kicked it in my direction. I'm sure he was thinking "Stupid humans can't tell the difference between vegetarian deer and predators!"

Best to leave the managing of the farm to the experts!

Speaking Sheep

Or: Levite the Translator, Goat Edition Pending

I have a neighbor across the street who only comes up from Connecticut a few times a year. He’s perfectly pleasant, but since he's rarely around, the dogs consider him highly suspicious—like Bigfoot, only with a Range Rover and a weekend bag. So every time he shows up, our Pyrenees launch into their full nighttime alert system: DefCon Bark.

They position themselves at the edge of the pasture, facing his house like fluffy four-legged neighborhood watch, and bark in his direction all night long. It’s not aggressive barking—more like, “Hey! We see you! You better not be up to anything weird!” Which, honestly, is fair. You never know with part-timers.

To keep the peace (and get some sleep), we move the flock into the paddock near the barn when he's here. That keeps the Pyrs quieter and out of trouble.

Come morning, the gate opens, and this is where things get interesting. Levite, our dominant male, takes his job very seriously. He insists on being the first one out of the paddock, like a secret service agent clearing the scene. He struts out, scans the field for threats, real or imagined, and within seconds gives some invisible signal that only the sheep seem to understand.

I swear, the rest of the flock just knows. They stand quietly, like they’re waiting for the usher at a movie theater to wave them to their seats. No one pushes. No one complains. They just wait. Then, Levite gives some kind of “all clear” body language—a tilt of the head, a puff of air, who knows?—and they file out calmly behind him like it’s Sunday morning at the church buffet.

Now, I don’t speak sheep. But apparently he does, because they actually listen. They trust him. It’s bizarre and oddly touching, like church ladies following a potluck casserole—calm, committed, and not to be questioned.

The goats, however? Completely unmoved. They don’t wait. They don’t follow. They certainly don’t listen. They just squeeze through whatever opening they find and bolt out like it’s Black Friday at Tractor Supply. Levite tries to stop them—puts himself in front of them, does his “follow me” routine, but they blow right past him with the same energy as teenagers sneaking out after curfew.

It frustrates him to no end. You can practically see it on his face: “I’m speaking sheep. Why won’t these idiots get it?”

Sorry, buddy. Apparently, goat isn’t in your dialect. Yet. Maybe it’s time to invest in Rosetta Stone: Goat Edition.

This Place Is Insane!

There are moments on the farm when I pause, look around, and wonder if I accidentally stepped into a deleted scene from a Monty Python movie. Today was one of those days.

We have an 8-foot hay feeder out in the pasture with a slanted plywood roof—practical, straightforward, keeps the hay dry, does what it's supposed to do. What it’s not supposed to be is a launch pad for sheep gymnastics.

One of our ewe lambs decided the feeder was not for feeding, but for freedom. She’d get a running start, charge up the slanted roof like she was storming Normandy, and hurl herself off the top—onto the backs of the other sheep. Most of them were not amused. There was a lot of panicked shuffling, annoyed grunts, and the kind of side-eye that said, “Seriously?”

But Bruce—oh, sweet Bruce the ram—just stood there. Like a saint. Or a bored playground dad who’s been used as a jungle gym one too many times. She’d land on his back, spring off again, land back on the feeder, and repeat the whole process like she was auditioning for Cirque du So-Lamb. Sometimes she'd fall off him entirely and just zip around to do it again, like a woolly little parkour expert with no sense of personal space or gravity.

Eventually, the rest of the flock had enough and shuffled away to the far side of the pasture. All but one ewe, who stood nearby, clearly regretting her life choices. She watched the whole routine with a look on her face that can only be described as, “This place is insane.” You could practically see the gears turning in her head as she weighed whether she, too, should find somewhere else to stand. Or maybe move out entirely.

And then I noticed why she looked so particularly done with the day:
She had a chicken roosting on her head.

Just standing there like it was the most natural thing in the world. The chicken was perched up high like she owned the place, and the ewe stood there like a woman stuck at a dinner party she couldn't escape. The combination made her look like she was wearing the world's weirdest hat. For you Harry Potter fans, imagine Neville Longbottom’s grandmother's vulture hat—but more... barnyard chic.

So, yeah. I have to agree. This place is definitely insane.

No Wonder Sheep Are Dumb

Meanwhile, back in the land of questionable judgment and limited brain cells… Pippin, the Saanen goat and Tiger, a wethered sheep, have formed a special bond based entirely on mutual idiocy. They’re about a year old, full of beans, and apparently decided yesterday was the perfect day to reenact Gladiator.

Their game of the day? “Head Butt”. Because nothing says “friendship” like repeated blunt force trauma.

Pippin reared up on her hind legs like a boxing kangaroo. Tiger came charging in from a solid three feet away, both of them going full throttle—and crack! You could hear the collision echo across the pasture.

They both stood there blinking, clearly trying to refocus after seeing stars. And then one of them said, telepathically:

“Hey! That hurt!”
“Yeah, but what a rush!”
“Let’s do it again!”

Which they did. Several times. Why? Because sheep... and goats.

At this point I’m starting to wonder if there’s a correlation between repeated cranial trauma and their complete inability to solve basic problems—like, say, not getting stuck in a fence they just walked through two minutes ago.

I'm sure all this causes brain damage. Which explains a lot!

That's farm life, where even the smallest animals have big personalities, questionable instincts, and no sense of self-preservation.

Do The Funky Lamb

We think we finally figured out the reason for Lambchop’s mysterious limp (see yesterday’s post).

Try as I might, I can't seem to get her weaned—not even after a week in a separate pen with nothing but hay, water, and her own thoughts. Lambchop is stubborn, determined, and apparently training for some kind of sheep-level Olympic sport. She’s about half the size of her mother and twice as wide. She’s developed a rather... creative technique for nursing, since she's too big to maneuver herself into the normal nursing position.

Here’s the scene:

She backs up about ten feet like a batter getting into the zone. She plants her feet—seriously, it looks like a bull squaring up for a charge—leans back just a smidge, takes a deep breath, and goes for it.

Head down.
Momentum building.
Eyes on the prize.

She takes aim and charges at full speed. Right before impact, she spreads her front legs wide and belly-flops into a full-speed slide, slamming into her mother’s udder with the force of a cannonball. The impact nearly knocks Mama Sheep sideways. Mom stumbles, looks vaguely offended, and then, like all long-suffering mothers, just sighs and continues on about her business.

And here I am watching this little wool missile launch herself across the pen like it’s completely normal. Now I'm no vet, but something tells me it might just be that front leg spread and full-body skid that’s messing up her shoulder. Just a hunch.

Still, I think she’s onto something. If TikTok ever discovers this move, it’s going viral. I’m calling it “The Funky Lamb.” Step 1: Back up. Step 2: Launch yourself like a bowling ball. Step 3: Skid on your belly into the heart of whatever problem you're trying to solve. Bonus points for dramatic flair.